Page 683 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

its billet. Course I never could throw anything straight at
school. Crooked as a ram’s horn. Sad however because it
lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping
and papa’s pants will soon fit Willy and fuller’s earth for

the baby when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft
job. Saves them. Keeps them out of harm’s way. Nature.
Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam. Children’s hands
always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even
closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted
curds. Oughtn’t to have given that child an empty teat to
suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must
call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan there still. She
used to look over some nights when Molly was in the
Coffee Palace. That young doctor O’Hare I noticed her
brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once
like that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs
Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in
drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in
your nose in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in
the morning: was I drunk last night? Bad policy however
to fault the husband. Chickens come home to roost. They
stick by one another like glue. Maybe the women’s fault
also. That’s where Molly can knock spots off them. It’s the
blood of the south. Moorish. Also the form, the figure.

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